


Holiday

by TheTriggeredHappy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trauma, it’s just scout trying to comfort sniper about a bad day that’s really it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTriggeredHappy/pseuds/TheTriggeredHappy
Summary: It’s that time of year again. At least two years into dating him, you’d think Scout would have figured out how best to comfort Sniper.You’d be wrong.





	Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> [[not sure why i wrote this but here you go. workin on a few other short things too but this somehow got done first]]

It’s a shame, really it is, only because Scout knows that Sniper loves autumn in America (especially up towards the northern parts), that it’s his favorite season, and he loves October especially because of how gorgeous the changing leaves are, and it’s especially sad because Halloween is his favorite holiday.

Shame what day it turned out being after in the grand scheme of things.

Sniper always had his whole costume and whatnot ready far in advance, planning from practically the day after Halloween all through the year. And the outside of his camper was fully decorated partially under his own whims and partially under Pyro’s (with approval). And he didn’t really plan on going to any party or outing besides the one that the mercs always had, because Merasmus was probably going to show up sometime after sunset on the day itself and because he didn’t like outings, so it wasn’t like he was missing anything important, Scout knew that.

Scout had dug through the bowl of candy Engie kept on the table in his workshop (even though it was labeled “do not touch (that means you, Scout)”, as if Scout would bother both reading it AND listening to it), not needing to dig particularly far to come up with a few handfuls’ worth of black licorice, promptly stuffed into his baggy pockets before he had to scamper, pursued by a Texan.

On his way out to Sniper’s camper, pockets rattling with sweets, he took a few moments to mentally tally the things going on with Sniper to make this year especially bad, to put such a damper on his mood leading up to his very favorite holiday. Firstly that he’d been hit with a bit of a cold, then that he’d really gotten slammed on the battlefield, then that he’d gone into one of his “slumps”, then, finally, that those things seemed to all pile on surrounding an already somber date in Sniper’s life. Terrible luck, really it was, only worsened in that it was siphoning away the one really happy time of year that he ever got.

He knocked on the door, and opened it with his key despite there being no response, and went inside despite there being no lights on.

The place smelled more heavily of cigarette smoke than usual, and as much like coffee as it did like beer, which made Scout’s eyebrows furrow even as he shut the door, as he tried to quietly toe his shoes off. His eyes adjusted to the light a little bit while he did, and quickly landed on the lump all curled up underneath blankets in the middle of the mattress on the other side of the room. It hadn’t moved.

He took a brief stop at the record player on the table where something was spinning away, already ended, waiting to be flipped over. The cover was old, and the artist old, and the music was probably about as old as those previous two things. He flicked the whole thing off to stop the tiny noise it was making, grating at the inside of his head where apparently it instead provided Sniper some amount of pleasant white noise sometimes. The lump didn’t shift at the change.

Scout sat down on the tiny mattress, not right next to the lump like the boyfriends that they were, instead on the other side like they were planning on playing a card game between them (as they had for so long before the last sheet of ice had broken and they’d kissed).

“Yo,” Scout said quietly, so very quietly.

The lump didn’t respond. From this new angle, Scout could see one of Sniper’s hands peeking out where it gripped at an edge of blanket. It was the one he usually wore a glove on, a line across the skin of his fingers like rings where the sun baked into him.

“I dunno if you’ve eaten yet today,” Scout started to say, still quietly, because he didn’t think Sniper was asleep but he couldn’t be completely sure. “I know you didn’t eat much last year, and the... the other days where you get like this, you don’t eat much either. On, y’know. Like on your birthday and stuff, or on the random ones. Brought you somethin’ just so you can get some food in you.”

No response from the lump. Maybe he really was asleep.

“It’s, uh, I know you hate crumbs and sticky food and stuff that can spill, so I got you somethin’ else. Prepackaged for your convenience!” He pulled out a handful of licorice, letting it drop carelessly onto the mattress between the lump and the wall, in what Scout was fairly sure was the direction Sniper was facing towards. “Ta-da! Licorice! Hold the applause, folks, really, you’re too kind, too kind.”

The bit stumbled over its shoelaces and fell unceremoniously into the silence that followed it.

“I mean, it’s bite-sized, y’know? And you said you like licorice pretty good,” Scout elaborated, even more quietly now. “Figured... I dunno. I’m gonna put the rest on your table before I leave so I don’t make a mess, but, y’know. Those are there now if you want ‘em. Take it or leave it, all that crap.”

Scout’s eyes drifted over to the calendar pinned to Sniper’s wall. It was fairly nondescript, bought from the gift shop of some beach city on the west coast. Pacific Northwest probably, based on the way the buildings looked, built for snow like his section out east. Sniper generally took care to cross out the days as they went by, but had trailed off sometime earlier that week. Halloween had the liberty of pens in multiple colors decorating it with a few ghosts. Conversely, the day before Halloween, that day’s date, had something written on it in small black letters in Sniper’s practically illegible scrawl, practically heiroglyphics to Scout, who could barely keep reading straight in his head when things were in neat, blocky script or in print.

But Scout knew what day it was anyways. Sniper had told him—“warned him”—a week or so in advance as a reminder, and Scout remembered his explanation from a year prior, and they’d talked very briefly about it to establish a few things. Namely, whether Scout should stop by or not, and what he should expect, and some boundaries. And Sniper had said a few things here and there over the years, and Scout had pieced together a bit of information. That once upon a time, Sniper was nineteen years old, and his father spent the majority of the time angry with him, and that on October 30th of one particular year he’d finally snapped and chased Sniper away. Scout had figured out that he’d probably done so with a weapon, maybe a gun. And maybe actually fired it at some point. Some kind of physical altercation. And then Sniper’s life was extremely difficult for quite some time until he got the money to get a camper, and then his life continued to be difficult until he figured out that hunting and shooting people was more profitable than hunting and shooting wildlife. Bits and pieces only, that’s all that Sniper gave him, because the majority of what he had to talk about in regards to that era of his past made him upset. He was more concerned with letting Scout know that it was a bad idea to touch him when he was in a slump as bad as he got on the anniversary of that day.

Scout wished they’d talked about it just a little bit more. Here he was, and after having seen his boyfriend through slumps before, he thought he’d know just what to do. But he didn’t. He was completely lost. He felt...

“Hey, can you even breathe okay under there?” Scout asked, shaking off his thoughts, leaning a bit to try to catch sight of some part of Sniper’s face or head. “That’s gotta be stuffy. Looks like you’re probably suffocating.”

“M’fine,” Sniper mumbled, the first words he’d said to Scout, and they were raspy, scorched, thick.

“Oh. Okay,” Scout said, a little surprised. Well, at least he knew Sniper was awake now.

There was silence between them for a second, then moment, then minutes. If Scout concentrated really hard, he imagined that he could see the blankets rising and falling with Sniper’s breath. But he figured it was probably just his imagination.

“I’m sorry,” Sniper said next, enough time between this and what had previously been said that Scout was fairly sure he was starting a new conversation.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Scout said quickly, reaching out as if to lay a comforting hand on Sniper (as he often did), but he managed to catch himself before he made contact, pulling his hand back. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s okay.”

“I’m... making you upset,” Sniper said, having to search for the words.

“I mean—I, you can’t help it. You aren’t doin’ this on purpose or nothin’. If—if you could stop feelin’ bad, you’d do it,” Scout stammered, fumbling his words a little in his haste to comfort Sniper.

“M’still sorry,” Sniper murmured. “At the very least, I’m...”

He trailed off, voice fading quieter and quieter until it broke away. Scout didn’t speak, giving him the few moments it took to find both his words and the courage to say them.

“At the very least, I’m still ruining your holiday,” Sniper finally said, whisper-thin.

“Like I said, ain’t your fault. And you’re way more important to me than Halloween anyway,” Scout said, careful to keep his tone both gentle and confident.

Sniper didn’t reply, but he did move, burrowing further into the blankets.

“And... and you’re doin’ better than last year, huh?” he tried, voice admittedly wobbling a little bit. “Last year you barely let me in, and could hardly say a whole sentence. Look at you now! Talkin’ and everything.”

“And hiding in a dark room, lying around, and smoking and drinking, and can’t even—“ a shaky breath, “—look you, in, in the eye, breakin’ down like a bloody, a _lunatic_—over th-the, over some silly, some s-s-si-silly, s—“

“Snipes, it’s okay,” Scout hurried to say, and _geez_ he wished he could at least hold Sniper’s hand, but he’d said that might just make it worse. Sniper hadn’t stuttered in front of him for a long time. About 365 days, in fact. “Seriously. You’re... I’m tellin’ you, progress is good. It’s okay.”

Sniper didn’t reply, just breathing in unsteady tremors, his visible hand shaking profusely.

“Look, it’s...” He fought hard to find the right words. “I... I know you feel bad, I know you feel embarrassed, but really, I don’t mind. I want to help you. And I can tell you’re gettin’ better. Really.”

Sniper just breathed.

“And...” Scout shifted, pulling his knees up to hug them against his chest. “...and if this year you let me in, and tried talkin’, then maybe...maybe next year, you’ll be able to hold my hand or somethin’. And maybe the year after that, you can sit up with me, and the one after that you take the blanket off, and the year after that you can try lookin’ at me, and the year after that you can look me in the eye or I can hug you, and...” He drew circles against his own knee. “And maybe the next year I can hug you, then the one after that you can make and eat some food, then the one after _that_ we can go sit outside somewhere, get some fresh air. Little steps, y’know? And if you aren’t ready for one of ‘em one of the years, that’s okay. There’s always the next year.”

Sniper’s breathing had evened out at some point, at least a little. “Love?” he asked, voice trembling, hardly a whisper.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Do you...” Sniper cleared his throat. “...Do you really plan on being here with me all those years down the line?”

Scout’s heart thudded, and something very nearby that thudding heart twisted itself up tight. “Uh,” Scout said. “Uh,” Scout said again. “Yeah, that was, uh,” Scout said, “the plan. Is that... is that okay?”

Sniper didn’t reply.

Scout’s eyes travelled to the table, eyes finally having adjusted well enough to see properly. There was an empty cigarette box on the table, an ashtray. A bottle of some kind of brown liquor, left open. The trash hadn’t been taken out in a while.

“Scout?” Sniper asked.

“Yeah?” Scout asked.

“Can...” Sniper asked. “...Can you take my hand, please?”

Scout didn’t hesitate for a single moment to lean over, but his fingertips hesitated over Sniper’s wrist. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’d... try and, er... but I don’t think I can move,” he said, voice raw.

Scout took his hand, laced their fingers together, left them lying palm-down on the bed.

“Thank you,” Sniper whispered.

“No problem,” Scout said, instead of almost crying with relief, finally in a territory where maybe he could help. He very slowly, very lightly, began drumming his fingers against Sniper’s knuckles. Index-middle-ring-pinky, pinky-ring-middle-index. Back and forth, little waves, and Scout realized that the untanned part of Sniper’s hand was about the same color as the tannest part of his own, there on his knuckles. And slowly, slowly, Scout imagined that he could feel Sniper’s hand relaxing.

“Maybe...” Sniper tried, “maybe next year can be sitting up, instead. Since I can... hold your hand already.”

Scout smiled. “Hell yeah. I’m already proud of you,” he replied.

Sniper didn’t say anything. Scout didn’t say anything. Five minutes later, Scout stopped drumming his fingers on Sniper’s hand. Five minutes later, Sniper squeezed his hand, so very lightly, and Scout squeezed him back and smiled. Five minutes after that, Sniper had begun to snore, so very lightly, and that made Scout smile too.

Next year, he thought to himself. Sniper had said it back. Next year.

Maybe by then, he’d have figured out how to help. If not, there was the year after that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> [[happy (late) halloween]]


End file.
